


Perhaps

by cybergirl614



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drunk Sherlock, Feels, John Has PTSD, M/M, Sherlock is a drunk asshole, and John is exhuasted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 22:22:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5472707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cybergirl614/pseuds/cybergirl614
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John can't sleep due to flashback nightmares, and heads downstairs aiming to drown his problems in alcohol, but discovers Sherlock beat him to it.<br/>Exactly  when it is set is up for grabs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perhaps

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Johnlock. I'm not nearly so much up on canon for Sherlock as I am with Supernatural so if I'm way off mark, tell me. Written as a gift for my amazing beta reader, MAP, whose username I'd link but don't know how.  
> Possibly squicky premise if you're sensitive, but whatever.

The nightmares. It was always the damn nightmares, and tonight they were particularly awful. He’d had enough of watching his blood-slick gloved hands slip on scalpels, enough of seeing men’s heads blown open from IEDs coming in for what little if anything medicine could do for them. He’d had enough, he needed to numb it in the only way he knew how at present. Yes, he’d taken his tranquilizer, and he knew on a professional level it was a terrible idea, but right now all he wanted was the burn of alcohol in his throat. Maybe that and the tranquilizer together would surpass the therapeutic threshold and let him slip into a coma. Maybe that was what he needed…a coma. Never mind if he actually woke up. He didn’t care right now. Well, he did, but didn’t. Pain was a strange thing like that, the professional part of his mind niggled. Call 999, have yourself sectioned under the mental health act. You’ll be over this, his professional instincts insisted, but he slammed them away into the darker recesses of his mind with ancient concerns of yesterday such as his secondary school education and the girlfriend who had broken up with him after his second year at university. Maybe if he’d had someone who cared, he’d have cared more for himself right now, but either way that was not the case.  
He spurred back the pain and heaviness long enough to get out of bed, removing the weight of the duvet as if it took tremendous effort, still shivering, whether from the wayward surges of adrenaline that were still wearing themselves out, or from cold, he couldn’t be sure. He toed on his slippers and tied his robe about himself. As he turned the knob to his door, trying to still the tremors of his hand that made it quiver in his grasp, he heard a noise.  
Screaming. Blood-curdling, like a man was dying. And a crash, the shattering of glass.  
He forgot his cane without noticing, went running down the stairs in his hurry.  
“Sherlock?!” John exclaimed, flinching as the sound of shattering glass rang through their flat. “What—what are you doing?!”

“What the hell does it look like, you lobotomized idiot? I’m drinking.”  
John let out a sputtering sigh. “Well, obviously. But…why? I thought you were—“  
“Bah! Enough of that blathering of yours. No fucking body gives a damn. Hand me the bourbon, John. Hand me the bourbon!” His voice rose to a shout at the end.

“What?” John scoffed. “No. No, I won’t hand you the bloody bourbon. You’re absolutely pissed. I might have some myself, but it’s not for you right now.” John snapped.

“ John!” Sherlock whined, his voice screeching uncharacteristically high so that John flinched.

“Nope. My bourbon now. And you’re gonna tell me, since you woke me up at two in the bloody morning, just what is going on,” John reprimanded, firmness, albeit not harshness, leeching into his voice, if only from habit and the instinctive knowledge nothing less would make someone so hopelessly drunk behave.

“Why would I do that?” Sherlock asked, his voice lost, floating somewhere in the absurd area between a sob and a giggle.

“Oh, I dunno, if you want any of your bourbon to be left…” John teased.

“ I’ll tell you, I’ll tell you if you give me back my bourbon!” Sherlock screamed, rising suddenly from his seat as he stumbled towards John a few feet away. He tried to grab the bottle but his reach was ataxic with inebriation, his movements undershooting. He stumbled and John cast the bottle away where it thumped to the table, trying to get a hold of Sherlock before the man hurt himself. 

John grabbed at the man’s nightshirt, trying desperately to keep him from hitting the floor. He didn’t fancy explaining to Miss Hudson why her upstairs tenant had roused her at this hour, nor why there was so much broken glass and spilled alcohol about. He managed to grab the flighty man, who was unwiledly in his arms like a wayward stork, corralling him away from the glass, away from the table towards Sherlock’s bedroom. He was half carrying, half guiding the man in this manner until he was close enough to the man’s bed to deposit him there, realizing he was trying to get up again, flailing for something he kept mumbling about that sounded like “Urbannn gimme my urban, Joooohnnn.”

“No, Sherlock. You’ve had e-bloody-nough bourbon to drown a cow. Go to sleep.”  
Sherlocked coughed, clearing his throat and his speech improved slightly.  
“No. need more. Nobody gives a damn…”  
“Sherlock, why’d you do this? Especially this time of night? Why breaking the bottles? Based on what I’ve seen, I’d think you were the one mad, not me.”  
“Nobody gives a damn, John. Everybody just wants me to sod off. No good, psychopath, wanker—“ Sherlock gagged for a moment, looking like he might vomit. John wheeled about looking for a basin, for anything to use in case he actually did. 

“Stay here,” John cautioned, retreating to the kitchen to fetch a basin. 

He was glad he did so just then, as when he reached the door he could hear Sherlock gagging again. He held it under his strange flatmate’s mouth as the man began to vomit in earnest. 

“They’re right, John. I’m no good. I’m too bloody nosy, I know things. Nobody wants to know what I know, John. Nobody wants to know. So I sod off. I…I’m so bloody tired of sodding off. Them and their stupid little brains. I—“ he broke off, retching again. “Wonder what goes on in their tiny sodding little brains.” 

“Yes, but, breaking things, screaming? Why tonight? Do I need to call 999? You’ve gotten yourself in quite a state, Sherlock.” 

“Oh, the broken bottles. Who gives a fuck about the damn bottles?”

“Well, no one, although as a doctor and as—as a friend, I’m concerned.”  
“Don’t waste your medical expertise on me. I assure you—“ Sherlock retched again, coughing as the wave of nausea ended. “Don’t need your help.”

“No, I think you do, though,” John replied. “Or I could call 999.”

“Don’t. Don’t call…” Sherlock growled, urgency entering his tone as he managed to grip John’s wrist uncomfortably tight despite how loose his muscles were. His cold blue eyes took on an urgency and danger as he stared right back up at John in the half-light coming from the kitchen. “Don’t.” 

“Alright then, I won’t. Just…rest, alright?”

“Don’t need rest.”

“Yes, you do.” 

“Don’t…don’t need rest.” The retching had eased and he was lying back a bit. 

“Hang on,” John said. “Lie on your side, alright?”

“Can’t. Uncomfortable…”

“You can too. Here…” John pushed a pillow under Sherlock’s side, sighing as the man flailed about, sending it to the floor. 

“No, you really must lie on your side.”

He repositioned the man with a sigh. “Good, now stay just like that.”

“Fine.”

“Yes, fine indeed,” John grumped as he left the room for the kitchen, where he briefly swept up the most of the shards of glass to deposit into the dust bin.  
He grabbed the half-full bourbon and guzzled several mouthfuls, the burn of it barely registering in his throat. He couldn’t afford to get properly wasted with Sherlock in this state, but he could at least drink a bit to hopefully take the edge off his tension. He capped the bottle and put it back on the shelf where it belonged and headed back to Sherlock’s room.  
There he settled into the chair beside the bed just in time to watch Sherlock roll over flat onto his face.  
Sighing, John nudged the inebriated man, who only moaned slurred nonsense at him, until he was back on his side, John sticking another pillow beside him to help prop him in place.  
“Sleep well, Sherlock,” John sighed, taking his seat again.  
Barely a minute passed before John had to repeat the process. He piled more pillows beside Sherlock to keep him positioned, but then he began to flop in the opposite direction. He sat with him, absently wondering how long of this he could stand until sleep began to creep in upon him too, the flush of alcohol in his veins deepening the feeling. Alcohol and purpose together had dulled his mind until all that existed was that damn flat mate of his passed out before him. The man whose snores instead of being grating assured him of breathing and sustained life, crucial for a man so dreadfully far gone. The phantom horrors of the war were wiped by that purpose. This man needed him. It called for the best of John, times like this, when he was drawn out of himself, so he lost himself in it and the mist of the edge of alcohol and his tranquilizer that together created a blessed mellow in his veins.  
“Sherlock,” John yawned as he kept his flat mate from rolling over yet again, sometime later such that his feet were beginning to tingle and his back clench from sitting in the same uncomfortable position so long in that damn chair, “Might I join you? I’m dreadfully tired…”  
Sherlock mumbled something reasonably similar to the affirmative, and John, by this point exhausted out of the remainder of his senses, slid into bed beside his flat mate.  
Come morning, he would regret and disdain the decision he’d made in his sleep-deprived, equally pitiful state as that of the man he had presumed himself to be watching over, but for the moment, he was grateful for that simple comfort. Where he nestled beside Sherlock in this mutually disinhibited state was comfortable, warm. Here with John’s arms wrapped about the snoring man’s chest, he knew his flat mate wasn’t in danger of rolling over and aspirating his own vomit in the night. His retching would rouse John should that occur, such that he would hopefully be able to intervene before it was too late, were the reasons his addled mind knit together.  
But perhaps, perhaps it was just a rationalization, for when John slept, he dreamed of something entirely different. He dreamed some nonsense similar to the American drama Orange is the New Black, except—bless—it was all men. And bless twice, no, fuck, fuck was the word, because he ended up in it vigorously snogging his bunkmate in the dark of night, who, when he opened his eyes in morning—still in the dream, of course, because fuck his subconscious, of course Freud was right about this bloody sort of thing—his bunkmate had a pair of startlingly familiar cold blue eyes.  
John recoiled, awakening like a sledgehammer had cracked him in the chest, simultaneously growing aware of a pulsing need.  
“Oh, bloody hell,” he whispered to himself.  
He wasn’t doing this. Wasn’t sleeping curled tightly to the form of his flat mate—practically spooning him, as it were—in Sherlock’s bed. He wasn’t drunk with Sherlock. He wasn’t hard from some sick dream about Sherlock. He wasn’t, he just wasn’t. Also, so far as John had ever known, he wasn’t gay.  
The oddity of that realization, of the very male nature of his flat mate just made the realization that much more surreal. Why was he here in Sherlock’s bed? Why had he chosen to do this? He had done no more than spoon the man, had he? He found himself checking the fact that he still properly wore his rumpled nightclothes for reassurance.  
No, he had done no more, and besides, Sherlock was so soundly asleep, there would have been no help from him in that endeavor. Fuck, John knew he’d fancied himself a miserable shit of a human being, as his therapist had over and over made abundantly clear was not the case, that it wasn’t his fault he was unable to save those who needed him most, but did he fancy himself a rapist too now?  
Still, John was tense with the realization, cursing his dying hardness. Cursing himself that as perverted as it doubtless was, he didn’t want to leave the other man’s bed, didn’t want to take the proper martyr’s role of sitting vigil all night in that miserable chair to watch him.  
Bloody if he wasn’t even tireder now, as the adrenaline and arousal of the dream and realization bled off, than he’d been when he’d climbed into this bed. He nudged Sherlock over a bit more, and rolled over so that his back was to the other man. He consoled himself with the idea he would still awaken to any movement or spasm such as retching that Sherlock took, simultaneously finding some piecemeal sort of solace in the fact sleeping back-to-back was decidedly less personal than John spooning him so thoroughly.  
John drifted back to sleep, which was blessedly dull and dreamless.  
“John Watson?”  
Oh, that voice again.  
“I cannot say I was displeased, albeit surprised, yes, to discover you in my bed. Do you recall whatever happened to bring this about? I’ve drawn nothing but a blank although I assume you did this out of…”  
“Bloody hell. I meant to wake up before you. I meant not to do this, I—I was so tired, Sherlock. I had to watch you, make sure you wouldn’t aspirate, drown in your sleep on your own vomit—bloody hell, I never meant—“  
John then glanced down, realizing his state. He reddened, frowning murderously at the duvet over his hips.

“I hazard a guess in this case that you are self-conscious of your morning erection,” Sherlock observed shrewdly, his cold eyes tracing the bulge that showed in the lumpy duvet.  
“I—I—“ John floundered about verbally like a drowning man.  
“But you would not act so uncomfortable unless it meant something to you,” Sherlock continued.  
“I don’t mean—it doesn’t—you don’t—“

“I don’t what, John? You climbed into bed with me last night, presumably in interest of insuring my wellbeing. Considering the magnitude of hangover I am currently suffering, my condition warranted such attentions. You are acting like an embarrassed child about a natural bodily function. It follows that given the practical nature of the details of the situation, that you would have a personal reason to be so perturbed. So tell me. What is it that has a man who killed to save me not 3 days after we met so ruffled?”  
“Nothing!”  
“Come now, I may not be the most socially adept of parties but even I can say that I believe you, ah, ‘owe me one’ as it were, after sleeping in my bed without my tacit awareness.”

“I…”  
“Out with it, John.”  
The sound John managed to produce was little more than a terrified squeak, Sherlock’s gaze boring holes into his own eyes as if he could see straight into his brain.  
“Well, you certainly do feel something if it is so embarrassing that you cannot even verbalize it.” Sherlock laughed now, and John wanted to bury himself under the duvet, hopefully suffocate under it so he didn’t have to face his flat mate’s infuriating stare or horrible questions.  
Oh, and the worst was, he was absolutely right.  
John instead sat petrified, staring at his flat mate again for innumerable seconds that ticked by so slowly to seem as if they were instead full centuries.  
“John? Tell me already, will you? Being afflicted with a hangover is not conducive to deduction, but my mind will not rest until I know, and mental rest is necessary for a pounding headache of this magnitude.”  
With this, John began to at least try to find his tongue, shame burning hot in his face.  
“I—I brought you to bed last night. I found you pissed out of your mind, smashing bottles against the wall, mate. I…I was sitting by you having drunk a bit of the bourbon myself until I couldn’t stand the dullness anymore and asked you to make room. I… You have my sincerest apologies, Sherlock. I didn’t mean anything of it.”  
“Don’t treat me like a foolish child, John. I know there’s more. Else you wouldn’t be flushing so.”  
“Damn.”  
“Damn what?”

“Damn my perverted self,” John groaned.  
“Perverted might be a strong word. Considering our full dress, and my decided lack of genital trauma, I do not believe you molested me during the night.”

“No, no, I’d never—“ John stammered.  
“Then what is it? What is it in your simple little head that makes you carry on so? Out with it. I have little patience right now.”  
“I…” John sat up, looking away. “I think I fancy you, Sherlock. Maybe you think it simple of me, but I am quite ashamed of my…” he gestured towards Sherlock on the bed. “Lack of decorum last night.”

Sherlock snorted. “If it’s any consolation, consider yourself forgiven any ‘lack of decorum’, provided you fetch me some paracetamol immediately.” 

“I—I can—“ John murmured, tripping over his words and his feet in the bedclothes as he jumped up to do as Sherlock bid him.  
“And water. Lots of water.”  
“Indeed,” John nodded. “I shall, just a tick—“ And he raced off to the kitchen.  
He returned scant minutes later with the water and painkillers which hhe gave Sherlock, who downed them quickly.  
“No, no, go slowly,” he cautioned as Sherlock attempted to guzzle the water.  
“I’m dehydrated,” Sherlock whined.  
“Yes, and you shall be even more if you drink too quickly and vomit it all up again.”  
“Fine,” Sherlock groaned, relinquishing the glass to John, who put it on the bedside table.  
“I should probably go make some breakfast,” John mused.  
“I’m not hungry,” Sherlock grumped.  
“No, though I am, a touch,” John replied.  
“Fine,” Sherlock said. “Make yourself breakfast. I shall waste away here by myself, I suppose.”  
“You won’t waste away, you nitwit. What’s gotten into you today? You’re not normally like this in the least.”  
“Perhaps you’re not normally like this yourself,” Sherlock quipped, a cunning smile playing at the edges of his lips as he steepled his fingers.  
“Oh, bloody you. What do you think you’re doing to me now?” John found himself saying.  
“I don’t know. Perhaps someone in my condition should be attended to,” Sherlock said appealingly.  
“Fine. I can sit here when I fix my toast and tea—“  
“Or you could have tea in bed, you know,” Sherlock suggested, making John nearly flinch in surprise.  
“Sherlock Holmes, suggesting such hedonism? You must’ve drunk a bit more than I figured last night, for you to talk like that, your brain must be in ruins.”  
“Is it, though?”  
“I don’t know.”  
“Oh, fix your bloody tea already. But come back,” Sherlock snapped.  
“Come back?”  
“Yes, sit with me, in bed. Is that such a strange thing to ask?”  
“Of a friend? Well, a bit, yes.”  
“Not of a friend, you simpleton. How is subtlety lost on you so? I don’t mind your fancying me. I don’t mind at all. How is that lost on you?”  
“I—you don’t mind? Like, you just don’t care either way, or…?”  
“Stop it already, John. Make your tea and toast. And come back to me.”  
“Alright…I—I will.”

So John made his toast, and came back shortly thereafter. He settled in the bed, at first awkward and stiff beside Sherlock, but his flat mate settled against his shoulder, his soft curls tickling John’s neck, and he soon found the desire to lean in to him likewise irresistible.  
“Perhaps…” John found himself murmuring, “Perhaps I’ve fancied you longer than I wish to admit.”  
“John, really. I’ve known quite some time.”  
“Have you?”  
“Yes, I certainly have. I’ve been waiting to see if you would realize it yourself. You fool.”  
“Then why call me a fool if you’re also…also fancying me?”  
“Why, because you’ve been too thick to admit it to yourself!”  
“Oh, so I’m a fool for not saying I…”  
“You what? Continue. You only stop yourself speaking if it was something significant. Out with it.”  
“love…” John murmured.  
“Love? Continue.”  
“Love you…”  
“Mmm, finally a fool has the courage to admit it.”  
“But that doesn’t bother you? You like it? I thought you were married to your work, no interest in relationships.”  
“Well I am, but aren’t you also?”  
“I—I suppose so.”  
“I didn’t expect it, but you never shied from me. I think we make quite the threesome, actually. You and I and danger.”  
“Perhaps, Sherlock. Perhaps.” John sighed as he hesitantly ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, gentling across that magnificent brow of his, where the nearly insufferable brilliance that constituted him lived.  
“Perhaps we are a threesome. You and I and danger…”


End file.
